He'd phoned her office twice that morning. Both times he'd explained to the receptionist that he'd been a close friend of Caroline Parsons and that he wanted to discuss Caroline's illness with Dr. Stephenson. Each time he'd been told the doctor was with patients and would return his call later. By noon there had been no response.

After the lunch hour he'd called again. Still the doctor was not available. This time he asked that Stephenson be told that if she was reluctant to discuss Mrs. Parsons's situation she need not worry because he had the lawful authority to access her medical records. His tone had been wholly businesslike and was meant to ease any professional concerns Stephenson might have had. In truth, despite Caroline's letter and what she had told him, he had no tangible reason to believe there had been foul play. Caroline had been terminally ill and under enormous stress and life would have seemed desperately hopeless and cruel any way she looked at it. Nonetheless, the letter existed and the questions lingered, and so until he was wholly convinced Caroline had been wrong, he would continue to pursue it.

What surprised him, what turned him and made him sit waiting in the dark outside Stephenson's home, had come at ten minutes to four in the afternoon, when the phone rang in his hotel room.

"This is Dr. Stephenson," she'd said, her voice flat and without emotion.

"Thanks for calling back," Marten had said evenly. "I was a close friend of Caroline Parsons. You and I met briefly in her hospital room."